


the memory of tobacco and roses

by Tarchannon



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), X-Factor (Comics), X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Gen, M/M, Noncanonical Character Death, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:18:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarchannon/pseuds/Tarchannon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The passing of Russia's greatest psychic stirs the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the memory of tobacco and roses

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Written for: Karen ( kphoebe on LJ) for the 2005 X-Men Movieverse Ficathon on LiveJournal.  
> 2) AU regarding Piotr's family tree/family history.  
> 3) Another most excellent beta by the_cur.  
> 4) In this AU, Piotr was part of a long line of mutants, perhaps the greatest in the world. Lady Rose was the greatest medium in Russian history - having precognitive abilities, naturally.

Logan woke with a start, the faint hiss of dragging cloth echoing in his head but not his ears. He shook his head to clear out the lingering flashes of a dream, scrubbing a faint sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of one hand. Sheets askew, he leaned back on outstretched arms and cast his senses out as he forced his ragged breathing back to normal. It hadn't been one of *those* dreams – those nightmares of pain and hurt and loneliness - but something else entirely, something older and closer and not so… bad. The shadowed Mansion around him was still and silent in the dead of the night, and he listened for a long minute before he decided that nothing was wrong.

Slipping silently from his bed, he settled on the wide windowsill, his thigh pressed up against the cold glass as he tried to capture the tattered scraps of his dream, but like the sand of the shimmering lake below his window, the threads slipped through his grasp. Wolverine sighed – most nights this would have left him frustrated and angry and ready to claw the walls, but tonight the memories were kind and almost soothing, lingering like perfume on an old dress. He watched the tops of the evergreens shift in the wind and the silvered caps of the waves in the lake for a while before his shoulders unknotted and he gave in to the calling of the warmth of his bed.

Settling back down, he punched down his pillow and balled it under his head, praying that he would be able to sleep again, but knowing it was as likely as a snow cone shop in Hell. Even so, Logan felt like he could rest for a change, and he closed his eyes, drifting into the noises of the night.

The door across the hall opened and closed.

* * * 

*Spaaaaassiiibooo, Piiiootr.*

Piotr woke with a start, the sheet pooling around his waist with a soft whisper as he sat up. Almost reverently, his fingers came up to press flat against his cheek as he blinked awake in the moonlight. The scent of roses hung in the air, fresh and warm in the chill of the late New England fall. She was gone.

Piotr closed his eyes and breathed in the scent and the peace and comfort that remembering her brought. It faded much too soon, and he sighed, alone again in the dark. The floor was cold on his bare feet as Piotr rose from bed, searching for his boxers. It was early – 4AM by the digital clock on his nightstand – but even so, he would go downstairs to make coffee. Nanna was gone, and he needed to go wait for the call.

The Mansion was thankfully quiet as he walked the hallways and stairs in the dark. Nanna would have approved of this place, and he knew that she had approved of the Professor when she insisted to his parents that he be sent here for school. He wondered if Ilyana would be coming now that she was gone. His mood turned even darker at the thought of having to argue with his parents over it, and so soon after. . .

***

"Piotr!" Nanna called to the kitchen from her parlor.

He looked sharply towards the open doorway, setting down his charcoal pencil with his drawing pad. It was curious - Nanna never wanted to be interrupted when she was with a client. Ilyana looked up from her book too, also curious, and he smiled. Her eyes were silver-blue like his, but her pretty blonde hair was so different from his black. There was no trace of that strange understanding far beyond her years in her face, so he remained calm and went to see why he was needed.

Walking carefully to avoid jostling the ceramic matryoshka arranged on the sideboard in the hall, Piotr shifted his shoulders slightly sideways to brush past the antique beaded table lamp that Nanna had collected in France and avoided the fancy high-backed velvet and oak chairs that had come from Germany. The rug beneath his feet was really from Persia, and the crystals in the chandelier above him in the foyer were from Italy. He loved this big, old house filled with all the strange treasures an eccentric great grandmother could collect in a lifetime of traveling. Thursdays were his favorite day because that was the day that they came here instead of going to school.

Nanna was sitting, staring at the large, hand-drawn cards spread out across the table. There was no client with her, and she was staring off into the distance with that strange look that Ilyana also got. He waited quietly until he was sure that she hadn’t noticed him. "Da, Nanna?" he called very softly from the doorway.

She was blinking tears from her eyes when she turned to him, which made him shiver, but the brilliant smile that followed as she rose took his breath away. Though he'd never seen her cry, her smile was nearly as rare, and it filled the room like none other he'd seen.

"Come here child," she said in that brusque way she had that went with the ram-rod straight posture and the silver hair pulled regally into a bun on top of her head. Even at nine, he was taller than she was and nearly twice as heavy, but when she was near, he always felt safe. Bright-eyed from a vision, she crossed to him, her black lace dress whispering across the carpet, and she hugged him tight before planting a kiss on his cheek and then holding him at arms length. He squirmed a little, the scent of roses filling his nose as she looked at him for a long time. Piotr could suddenly see in the lines of her face that she had once been beautiful.

"Spasibo, Piotr. You make me proud," she said, her face soft and her voice even rougher than usual. She searched his face with a wistful look, a hint of that smile returning before she squeezed his arms hard and stepped away. Looking into a darkened mirror in the wall, she caught up a stray hair and smoothed it back up into the bun, taking a moment to withdraw and reseat a long silver Chinese hair pin.

"Run along now to the kitchen and watch your sister," she said, once more her usual, stern self. "I have a client in five minutes, and after, we shall have tea together."

***

Piotr had just put the coffee on and was settling down at the large wooden table in the center of the room with his thoughts when Logan slipped into the kitchen and eyed him closely. Piotr sighed softly, wishing he would just go away, but still couldn’t resist watching the Old Wolf prowl through the room as he sat sleepily cradling his chin in his hand. Logan didn’t seem to have aged a day since he'd been brought to Xavier's by Scott and Ororo, but Piotr knew better. Ten years later, he knew Logan must look a little different but his mind seemed to always remember him being the same as the first time they met. Already dressed in his usual jeans and a skin tight t-shirt, the Wolverine did not seem to be upset like after one of his dreams, and it made him wonder why he, too, was up in this hour of grief. He tried to ignore the man, but his eyes were as traitorous as usual. Piotr knew the power in the muscle that flexed and shifted under his gaze as he watched as long as he dared, wondering if Nanna would have scolded him for his boldness or his reservation. But the Old Wolf was already looking warily though the window out into the darkness and sniffing at the coffee, and Piotr was in no mood to make Logan any more restless than he already seemed to be by pressing the unspoken détente between them. Piotr looked down at the table as the dark brew tricked into the pot; it was always like this – he watched Logan, and Logan paid him no attention – though he wished it was otherwise.

"Yer up early."

The gravely voice came suddenly from behind him, but he refused to rise to the bait and jump or look back. No matter what, he trusted Logan with his life. "Da. There will be coffee," he replied, as if that answered what Logan was really asking. He hoped it would be enough of a hint that he did not want to be disturbed, but Logan rarely took hints.

"Whatsa matter, Pete?" Logan asked almost gently as he pulled up a chair nearby.

Scrubbing one large, paint-stained hand over his face, he realized that he didn’t have the energy this morning for the pretense that what the Old Wolf thought didn’t matter to him. "My great grandmother just died, and I'm waiting for the phone call," he said slowly, grief coloring his voice.

Logan popped an eyebrow. "Whaddya psychic now?"

Piotr shook his head sadly, "No. She was."

*** 

Piotr hadn’t ever heard the word 'mutant' until the night that Mikhail disappeared and they went into hiding in Siberia. Until then, they had lived in Moscow where his parents worked for the government. Mother and Father had to travel often for work, and beyond their usual Thursdays, he and Ilyana would sometimes visit Nanna’s house for weeks at a time. They had always thought of it as an adventure. Nanna worked at home, and she always had interesting people coming in and out at all times of the day and night. He really didn’t understand that Nanna was a mutant, or that her mysterious husband had been a mutant, and through them, the descendents of Ilyana Ivanovich Rasputin – were all gifted. He hadn’t realized exactly what his parents did for the government either, or why anyone would want to kidnap Mikhail, or any one of them. What he knew back then was that Nanna had visions, and often they came true. She had met the rich and famous from all over Europe, been able to travel even when it was rare or discouraged by the government. But now that she was older, her clients all came to her. It was wonderful!

He and Ilyana sat and played games as they watched Nana’s clients through the railing at the top of the stairs. They made up stories about the men in suits with hats, women in fancy dresses, dour Russians in grays and blacks, the rich and the poor that would come, or they would try to guess which one’s Nanna would take into her parlor and which she would turn away. Ilyana was always better at the game even though she was no more that five or six.

Despite the comings and goings so many people, Piotr never forgot the first day he saw the strange dark man in the foyer, or heard his deep voice. He and Ilyana were in the kitchen when he heard it, a man speaking a language he did not know. He hadn’t heard anyone come to the door, and he went to look. Peeping around the corner, he saw Nanna speaking in low tones with the man. Piotr couldn’t take his eyes off him; there was something strange and fascinating about him, and before he knew it he had stepped from his hiding place, out onto the Persian rug.

"Nanna, what language is that?" he asked in Russian. The man looked at him sharply, hard eyes flashing a warning, but Nanna chuckled. She seemed to be in a good mood, and when he came over to him she cradled his face with her hand and smiled.

"Piotr, that is …." He held his breath as her eyes went suddenly vacant, and he tried to be as still as he could, but eventually his body needed air, and his gasp snapped her out of it. With that mysterious glimmer in her eyes, she said, "You shall know soon enough!" and she kissed him on the forehead before she escorted the man into her parlor.

The odd man came back every Thursday after that and gave them English lessons. They were never told his name.

***

"Was she a mutant?" Logan asked carefully.

"All in my family are mutants,” he explained patiently as he got up to pour a cup of coffee, “beginning with Nanna"

"Yeah, but yer not psychic…"

Piotr smiled faintly and poured a second cup; they both liked it black. "Neither was my great grandfather – whoever he was. None of the men are." Piotr reached a huge arm in front of Logan to drop off the mug of coffee and grinned. "The Rasputin men break things. A lot." Piotr settled into the seat nearest Logan with his own mug. Logan grinned back at him, and they sipped the hot brew as an easy silence settled between them - but it had always been that way. The house around them was still quiet and the sky outside dark, and the scent of coffee laced with the smoky traces of Logan's cigars filled the room before either of them spoke again.

"Were you close?" the Old Wolf finally asked.

"Da, she was a famous fortune teller in Russia and Europe. She was wealthy and sophisticated. My grandparents died young and my parents were raised Soviet, but Nanna always made sure Ilyana and I had all the things we needed during the hard times. And she watched us sometimes when my parents were working."

***

"That will be enough for today," Lady Rose said, sweeping into the room.

The dark haired man just looked sharply at her, like they both knew something they weren’t saying.

Piotr exchanged looks with Ilyana. They both wanted to complain, but that never sat well with Nanna. Instead, they dutifully rose and exited the parlor, filing up the stairs like they were returning to their rooms, and then dropped into place on the foyer balcony to peer through the slats and listen.

"You must go quickly," Lady Rose said urgently, but in hushed, strained tones. The man said something too deep and soft to hear, but Nanna pressed some money and what looked like a passport into the man's hands. Their English teacher just looked at the paper in astonishment.

Nanna was wearing that ghost of a smile when she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek before grabbing him by the arms and steering him to the door. In rapid fire Russian, she told him firmly, "Stay south of the Moskva River as you go to the Kiev Railway Station. Take the Kievskaya metro line. Do not walk onto the platform a moment before 9:26 PM; stay out of sight in the park across the street from the station until five minutes before. You must do this…. so you will get to where you need to be."

And with that, she shoved the man out the door and closed it behind him. She did not turn around for a long moment, but stared at the door like she could watch him go through the heavy oak.

Piotr studied Ilyana, her eyes black for an instant before she gasped, as sound that matched the little hitch in Nanna's voice from the floor below. It was never good when that happened. When he dared look, Nanna’s stony-face was trained on Ilyana, their eyes locked together in some secret world. He felt suddenly sick, like his stomach had dropped out.

Nanna abruptly turned away, stalking off to the doorway of her parlor. In a tone so unlike her normal voice, she stopped with one hand on the door and said very softly, "I'm afraid… that was your last English lesson."

The parlor doors slammed closed behind her.

***

"I think she knew."

Logan leaned toward him and frowned. "How?"

"She spoke to the Professor last week, and then asked for me."

Logan looked perplexed.

"She's never done that before. I did not know that they knew each other." Piotr sipped his coffee and drummed his fingers on the table as he thought. "Ilyana is coming here now."

"Here?" Logan asked, and Piotr just nodded. "Does she speak English, too?"

Piotr smiled faintly. "Better than me. Nanna made sure of that."

“She knew,” he added with absolute confidence.

Logan shook his head, looking somewhere between amused and disgusted – the same look he had anytime the successes and failures of telepaths were mentioned. Piotr had always liked that expression, but tonight he looked away, absently rubbing his fingertips together to remove some imaginary paint.

Their habitual silence turned awkward, and the strangeness of it drew his attention. At first, he thought the Old Wolf had drifted off, but suddenly he realized that the older man was staring at his hands. Piotr just stared right back.

"But I bet that she doesn’t have your hands," Logan mumbled, his expression changing to something almost sheepish.

Piotr blushed down to his toes, pulling his hands back as if he had been burned. "Uh, no." 

Logan's eyes looked very gold all of a sudden, and Piotr got lost in them before he blinked, started when the phone rang. He still couldn’t stop watching him as Logan glared at the phone and slipped out of his seat. 

Piotr winced, dragging his eyes away. "That would be for me," the Russian said as he levered himself to his feet.

Logan nodded a little awkwardly and headed to the doorway as he crossed to the kitchen extension.

"Petey?"

Piotr looked back with his hand on the receiver.

"She did good."

Piotr smiled sadly and nodded as the Old Wolf left to give him some privacy and he picked up the phone. "Hello," he said careful to enunciate clearly.

"Piotr?"

"Ilyana!" Even his grandmother's death could not keep the smile off his face, even if the spark of joy was only a flicker. Serious once more, he asked, "She is gone, yes?"

"Hello, my brother," she replied in crystal clear English, fondly mocking his speech pattern. "And yes, she passed a few hours ago."

"I know," he said quietly, and a knowing silence filled the long space before he spoke again. "When is the funeral?"

"Thursday. She had made the arrangements weeks ago."

"You know that I cannot come…"

"She understood, Piotr. She did not want you to risk yourself."

"But…" Piotr objected, suddenly guilty for not being there with his family.

"No," Ilyana stopped him abruptly. "She sent you some things… they should arrive soon."

"But…"

"No, Piotr, please," she chastised him quietly for arguing today of all days. "She also sent something for you to keep for Mikhail…"

"Mikhail?" Piotr gasped.

There was silence on the line for a long, awkward moment as he realized that she knew their brother was alive and had not told him, and then wondered why that was until his head spun. But now was not the time to doubt the timing of Nanna's secrets… "Are you still coming here?"

"Yes, I have my ticket for Thursday evening." There was a ragged pause before Ilyana continued with the first sign of wavering in her voice, "She was… prepared."

"Da."

"Da."

There was another long pause. "Did you tell him?" she asked.

"Nyet. He does not know how I feel…."

"I meant the other thing."

Piotr swallowed hard, the phone creaking in his grip. He blew out a long breath and relaxed his hold, trying to cover the guilt of his silence with the desire to protect his friend. It was easy to parrot the Professor's reason, "No. I do not think he is ready."

"Is he the same?"

"Yes and no. His English is worse," Piotr joked lamely, and when he got no response, he understood exactly what she was remembering.

"Was it bad?" she asked, almost too soft to hear.

Piotr had seen their eyes that day, and he knew there were no words. "Nanna knew. You knew. I do not have to tell you."

There was a deep, sad silence.

"He smokes cigars now, like Papa," Piotr finally said, his melancholy colored with affection.

Ilyana laughed, "Like Nanna did sometimes."

Piotr laughed for a moment before sobering. "I miss her."

"I know. Me, too."

Piotr ran out of words then, and so did she, so they sat on the phone just being together for a few minutes as tears ran down his face, and he listened to her breathe.

"Ilya, I will come to the airport," he finally choked out. "But outside the metal detectors."

"I will look for you," she promised like Nanna, showing, once more, poise beyond her years.

"You will like it here," he tried to reassure her like a big brother should.

"I know," she half-laughed, half-choked.

Piotr smiled though his tears. "Tell Mama and Papa that I love them."

"See you soon."

Piotr hung up the phone and sat, face in hands, his back quivering as he quietly sobbed.

* * *

Logan stood in the hallway, one hand splayed across the oaken door, reaching out but torn, shocked and aching, trying to breathe. Why didn't Pete tell him?

The sky was growing lighter in the east and his ears were filled with quiet sobs when Wolverine let his hand drop and turned on his heel, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted the hot copper that always seemed to accompany betrayal like beer with pretzels. But he only made it as far as the porch and the cold fall air heavy with the promise of an early frost before the rest of what he had heard weighed down his feet and he sank down onto the hard stone steps.

Wolverine clicked the lighter closed on his thigh as he puffed, drawing the heavy smoke into his mouth and across his tongue, and he hunched a little against the cold and the memories. He remembered flashes: steel gray hair pulled up in a bun, the house in St. Petersburg, the way the hairs would stand on the back of his neck when she spoke over the cards… and when she passed him the black folders that he was to courier. He remembered her stiff, black lace dress whispering and her ancient, knowing eyes.

The stars were flickering out one by one, giving way to the day as he sat there, sheltered by a big cedar. If Piotr kept this from him, then maybe he should just get the hell out of here. If he couldn't trust Pete…

The clean, cold wind stirred the aromatic branches beside him, and he watched the blue-gray smoke curl upward and dissipate. If he couldn't trust Pete, then why in the Hell wasn't he still running? And why was the smell of roses everywhere?

He knew then that she was somewhere nearby, laughing at him in that strange way she had - like she knew something you didn't, because of course she always did. And damn if he couldn't help but grin like a fool.

Wolverine stood, taking one last, deep pull on his cigar and blowing it skyward, using his hands to wave the stink cloud higher. Lady Rose always hated cigar smoke – unless she was smoking one, too. The Canadian grinned a little wider and whispered a farewell as he ground the cigar out on the stone and turned to head back inside. Today, Piotr needed him, but tomorrow… tomorrow they were going to have a talk about tobacco and roses.


End file.
